It is a simple fact that we police are not well liked. Hated is really the word for it. It's pretty universal—criminals and law-abiding citizens alike. Poulets, they call us. Chickens. A basic mistrust of authority is in the French genes, I suppose, or the water, maybe, and if I weren't a cop, I'd probably hate us, too.
This kind of mistrust makes it hard to get a witness to cooperate, for example. One minute they're crying, "Help! Thief!" and the next, they're calling for justice for the very same thief because he was "mistreated" while in custody. We can't win. It doesn't help that we've been sited for human rights violations against certain ethnic minorities. A few bad seeds and we all sow shit.
Today, Moudie and I walked right into a hostile group of students as we were leaving HQ. They were hurling rocks and words like, "racist" and "fascist." Nice, huh? In the next instant, it was a mad scene; riot cops rushed out of the building and tried to create a barrier with their bulletproof shields, pushing the crowd of protesters back. Moudie and I ducked down the quay to safety but the damage was done; Moudie had been hit. I was furious, but Moudie was not. In fact, he was laughing. He stood there, blood running down his cheek, and laughed—first, at the students for throwing rocks at an Algerian while protesting racism, then at me for being so fired up about it.
"Take it easy, boss," he said. "We got bigger problems than those misguided assholes." He recommended we get a drink, then he turned to me and said something I'll never forget: "Listen, boss, when your skin is dark, it better be thick, too. You have to learn to pick your battles. I refuse to spend my whole life pissed off. Hating."
Point taken. Surely, I can try to rise above the hate in my life if Moudie can. But damn, I felt the sting of that rock as if it had hit me. I felt it deep—the lack of respect, the hatred. Still, I should do like Moudie did: wipe away the blood and move on.
